


Where My True Love Lies in Wait for Me

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Lieutenant Duckling, deckhand killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:05:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5760631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma, Princess of Misthaven, finds an unexpected friend in the shy and awkward deckhand who mops up her mess on a trip to visit family in Arendelle. Little did she know that the shy and awkward young man would grow to be a dashing lieutenant as they are thrown together time and time again, until one day the princess is kidnapped by pirates. Happy birthday to my darling Heather!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where My True Love Lies in Wait for Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BelovedCreation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedCreation/gifts).



“Does your highness wish to break her fast?”  


“Yes, Grace. I'd like something sweet. A pastry, perhaps?” 

“I'm afraid there isn't much in the way of pastries on board, highness.” The lady's maid looked extremely apologetic as Emma sighed. Mother's words came to her then— _one must always be kind to our subjects, even when things are not to our liking_ —and she smiled kindly. 

“Chocolate will be fine,” Emma told the nervous maid. Grace smiled with relief, holding out a pair of sturdy boots for Emma to slip into as she exited the state room, presumably to the galley for a cup of warm chocolate. 

Emma was on her way to visiting distant cousins in Arendelle—Anna and Elsa, princesses, just like her. She was rather excited, for it was her first trip without her parents and a full retinue. Just Emma, her new lady's maid, and six royal guards. The Queen of Arendelle, related in some royal way to Emma's mother, had invited Emma for the summer. When the gaily painted _Ice Maiden_ had arrived carrying the textiles Arendelle was known for, Emma grew excited, knowing that she was to return with the ship. She had been exchanging letters with her unknown cousins for several years, and she longed to see the ever-winter of Arendelle, and to watch the constant merchants and traders alike docking at Arendelle Harbor. The small island was known for being right at the center of a trade route, and Anna and Elsa had filled Emma's head with adventures as they wrote to her of the various people who filled the town on a regular basis. Misthaven was somewhat secluded, and Emma herself had never traveled very far. A grand undertaking! At just sixteen, she longed for an adventure of her own, and she was fairly bursting with impatience to arrive. 

But it was only the second day of a ten-day voyage, and Emma had spent the entirety of the first day learning the layout of the ship (and stifling laughter at her maid's green pallor and heaving over the side). Today, she wished to meet some of the sailors from Arendelle.  


Emma finished lacing her own boots (Grace had balked at the idea that the princess wished to dress herself, and she practically had to order the young lady to allow it), straightening her smart new walking costume and smiling in the small mirror hanging beside the door. Mother and Father had thought it best that Emma travel under the guise of a merchant's daughter, so she did not wear the rich fabrics to which she was accustomed; instead, she sported a simple dress, sensible boots, and a large hat to keep her skin from freckling any more than it already was. She pulled on a pair of thin gloves and with a smile, she looked forward to her day. When Grace arrived with her chocolate, Emma decided to break a cardinal rule of etiquette and drink in front of others so she could watch the calming waves as she enjoyed it. She wished to smell the ocean while enjoying her breakfast. 

“Lovely view, eh, lass?” came a gruff voice from behind her. Emma started, spilling some of the lovely chocolate on the deck. She turned to find the captain directly behind her, and she thought she detected the traces of a leer as she faced him. 

“Good morning, Captain.” 

“Jones!” he bellowed, nearly startling her again. He eyed the puddle of chocolate on his deck angrily. “I thought you were swabbing the deck. Where is that infernal boy?” 

Emma did not like the man's tone. She did not like the man, either; he seemed to order the crew about in an overly harsh manner, his commands met with insolent salutes and disgruntled expressions once his back was turned. Emma was quite certain no merchant captain from Misthaven would be so cruel, and she wondered if it would be out of step were she to mention as much to the rulers of Arendelle. 

A moment later, a young man appeared with a mop, clearing away the mess she'd made. While she was glad she had not spilled on her skirts, she felt regret wash over her as the captain continued to berate the young deckhand, criticizing his technique and his lack of attention for not immediately cleaning the mess. It was on the tip of Emma's tongue to intercede, but she sensed that the captain would not appreciate that; he did not know that she was a princess, merely thought her a rich man's daughter, and she did not think he would take too kindly to her objections to the way he commanded his own ship. 

The deckhand—Jones--did not meet her eye as she attempted to convey her apology to him while he continued his job. Deciding she would make it up to him, she waited for the captain to leave before speaking, for she did not wish to get him in any extra trouble. 

“Pardon me,” she tried once the captain had gone, but the young man did not acknowledge her. Perhaps he had not heard? 

“My name is Emma,” she tried again, and this time she saw that he darted a look at her from under his disheveled hair, his eyes darting back down just as quickly. He shook his head twice and then turned, and she felt anger at the captain that obviously did not wish for his own crew to speak with the passengers aboard. She resolved to right this terrible wrong, indignation at the tyrannical captain filling her anew. 

Much later, after confirming that most of the crew did not like their captain, Emma went in search of the young deckhand, Jones. 

She found him in the belly of the ship, perched on a barrel and eating an apple. 

“Hello,” she said, startling him so much he nearly dropped his food. He looked up and flushed, his other hand furtively moving behind his back. 

“You shouldn't be here,” he muttered, looking down at his lap. 

“I'm quite sure the captain told me to make free of his ship,” she said lightly, consternation coloring her brow. She looked at the young man, looked at the way he seemed guilty and the way he kept hiding whatever he'd been holding. As she continued to regard him, she noticed that the tension did not ease in his body, and she wondered if she should simply take her leave. Emma was a curious young lady, but she did not wish to cause him discomfort. So, she turned and sighed, thinking that it would be a long trip, indeed, if she was unable to make even one friend amongst the crew. 

“You—you can stay,” he called out as she walked away, and she felt a large grin overtake her face. She turned back around, glad when he did not look away from her as he had been doing. 

She noticed with some surprise that he was rather nice-looking—his clothes were shabby and his hair was an utter disaster, but his eyes were clear, and kind. His skin was somewhat swarthy and he had the beginnings of a beard and mustache; she wondered at his age, and how long he'd been sailing, so she decided to ask. 

“How long?” he said with surprise, as if no one had ever thought to ask him about himself. “Why, since I was a boy, I suppose.” 

“And have you always wanted to be a sailor?” 

He chuckled darkly. “I'm afraid I was never given that choice.” 

“What, were you conscripted into service as a boy?” she laughed, accepting an apple when he handed it to her. She watched as he took a large, cracking bite of his own apple and so she followed suit, not before she removed her gloves to enjoy the delectable fruit. 

“I wouldn't call indentured servitude conscription, milady,” he muttered, his eyes once again casting down. She didn't want him to look away from her, like he wasn't good enough, and it was on the tip of her tongue to say so when his words registered. 

“Indentured servitude!” she exclaimed. She'd heard of such terrible things, but slavery had been banned in Misthaven over a hundred years before. She knew selling one's self into service was allowed in other parts of the realm, but it horrified her to meet anyone who had done it. And then it occurred to her that he was a young man, and he had possibly been sold into service as a child. 

“Aye, milady. But I'll be eighteen in three months, and then I'll be done. And I can finally go do what I wish.” His words were uttered with such grim satisfaction that Emma felt her heart opening to this young man who seemed kind and handsome and shared apples with her. And he didn't even know she was a princess. 

“Call me Emma,” she offered, and when he looked up and met her eye, his grin was nearly as bright as hers. 

“Emma, then. My name is Killian. But really, you oughtn't to be sitting here with me, fine as you are. I do not wish to taint you by association.” 

“I'll thank you to not speak so meanly about my new friend,” she said archly, and when his smile grew ever-brighter, she felt a warm and happy glow inside. 

* * *

After learning that what Killian hid behind his back was a book, Emma made her way back to her state room, digging around in one of her trunks until she found just the thing. He'd shyly told her that he wasn't very good at reading, but he'd stubbornly learned anyway, the lessons his mother taught him long ago sticking with him once he'd come across an old primer lying open-faced on the road during one of his infrequent trips to a village. He told her he felt shameful taking the book, but he couldn't help himself, and did she think him a thief? 

“It is old, and likely was rubbish, anyway,” she said firmly, not wanting this nice young man to feel guilt for wishing to learn. So, she spent hours when she ought to have been sleeping huddled over her trunk, holding a candle to light her search as she decided which would make the best gift for her new friend. 

When she present him with the only slightly-worn novel of adventures on the high seas entitled _The Incredibly True Derring-Do of Captain Dore_ , she felt a delight she hadn't experienced in all her sixteen years. Killian's eyes looked shiny as she held the book out, practically thrusting it in his hands when he wouldn't take it. 

“I cannot,” he whispered, one finger reaching out to caress the spine. 

“I have three others just like it at home,” she told him. 

Eventually, a deal was struck; he would keep the book, but only if he would read it to her to keep her company during the rest of the voyage. For the next six days he did just that, but only late at night; his duties barked at him by his captain kept him from her path most of the day, though she spent a large portion of her time surreptitiously watching him from wherever she was, her eyes following Killian's every movement. The way he easily moved about the deck, even when the chop was fairly harsh. How he seemed to dance, so graceful were his movements. How he never once rolled his eyes as the other crew did, determined to make the most of the terrible lot in life which he'd been handed. Emma quite admired Killian's fortitude, and she resolved to do anything she could to help this young man who was kind, her friend of ten days that she would most likely never see once she arrived at her destination. 

“I happen to know the King and Queen of Arendelle,” Emma announced the night before they were to arrive at port. Killian had surprised her upon her arrival in the cargo hold by presenting her with a piece of cheese and a small cake, laughing as she, in turn, presented him with another book. He'd protested, and she'd insisted that he take the small, blank journal, that he could write the thoughts he would tell no one in the little book, and anyway, she could get more any time she wished. 

“I imagine you've met all sorts of important people,” he told her, smiling as she pinched off a piece of the cake and carefully placed it in his upturned palm. He popped the morsel in his mouth, dusting his hands off and turning to face her fully. “Tell me. What's it like to have an audience with royalty?” 

“More ordinary than you can possibly imagine,” she said, grinning at the sparkle in his eyes. She tried not to think on the fact that by this time tomorrow, she would be in Arendelle, and there would be no Killian Jones to sneak away to when she ought to be sleeping. “Anyway,” she continued, banishing the thought, for it filled her with a longing she did not wish to name, “I could put in a good word for you. You say you wish to become a sailor of your own volition, to do something honorable and noteworthy with your life. Why not join the royal navy?” 

“The royal navy,” he scoffed. “Emma. I'm the son of nobody who was sold into near slavery. What could I possibly have to offer to royalty?” 

“More than you know,” she told him softly. She insisted that she would speak to the king and queen on his behalf, and that her words carried more sway than he might guess. He grinned, shaking his head and looking down, but when he raised his head to meet her eye, he reached out to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. Her breath caught, and the flutter in her belly told her that she would do all she could to make sure this handsome boy got more out of life than he'd ever dreamed. 

* * *

Nearly two years passed before Emma saw Killian again. She was at Market Day in Arendelle with Elsa, halfway through her annual summer trip and having a marvelous time. Her cousin-friend ducked into a shop for ices, and Emma was inspecting a bookseller's window, wondering whether she needed yet another novel to read. 

“That one is terrible, I do not recommend it,” came a deep voice from behind her, and when she turned around swiftly, a look of sheer joy and utter incredulity suffusing her face, it was to see the grinning face of Killian Jones, his eyes bright and warm as he returned her smile. 

“Killian,” she breathed, having to suppress the urge to push down on her own cheeks, she was smiling that brightly. 

“That's Lieutenant Jones to you, milady.” 

“Oh, you got your commission! I never knew, I simply spoke with their majesties, and--” 

“And I never knew how to find you to thank you! I tried to find your direction, but I was told that there _was_ no Lady Emma to be found. Before I could figure out how to get an audience with the king and queen to ask them, I was being swept away to sea, and I--” 

“You look so well in your uniform, Killian--” 

“--cannot thank you enough--” 

“It's so good to see you again.” That last they both spoke at the same time, blushing furiously as they each laughed. Emma could see the reflection of her sparkling eyes in his; he looked so good, so hale and hearty, so handsome. He seemed taller, broader; prouder. His shoulders were thrown back, and his countenance was much lighter, less weary. 

“You seem well, Lieutenant,” she said warmly, trying his rank around on her tongue. 

“As do you, milady.” 

“Emma.” 

“Killian.” 

“Elsa.” Her friend chose that moment to appear, an ice in each hand. Killian's jaw dropped slightly as he fumbled into a deep bow, his eyes looking panicked as they searched for Emma when he rose. 

“Your highness,” he sputtered, bowing his head once again. Emma nearly laughed. 

“Lieutenant--?” Elsa said, a question in her tone, her eyes at the stripes on his cuff. 

“Jones, highness. Lieutenant Jones.” 

“Ah,” Elsa said, looking at Emma from the corners of her eyes. “So you're Emma's young man.” 

Emma felt herself flush warm and wished for nothing more than to elbow her friend in the ribs. 

“This is my _friend_ Killian, Elsa,” Emma said instead. “Lieutenant, may I introduce her royal highness, Princess Elsa.” 

“Just Elsa, for any friend of Emma's,” Elsa said, putting her hand out. Killian took it, but rather than shake it, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. Emma felt a stab go through her, thinking, _he never did that to me_. 

Killian let go Elsa's hand and then backed away a step, looking so awkward that Emma was glad he did not know that she, too, was a princess. Suddenly anxious that her cousin would spoil that very thing, Emma took Elsa's elbow, ready to take her leave. 

“You should come to dine at the castle tonight, Lieutenant,” Elsa said, looking down at Emma, a look of pure mischief sparkling her eyes. 

“Oh, I don't think the Lieutenant has time for such--” 

“I would not wish to intrude...do you not wish for me to come, Emma?” Killian seemed flustered as he spoke, his brow wrinkling as he turned to look at her, worry in his eyes. She felt another stab go through her, this one guilt at thinking that she might have hurt her friend. With a heavy sigh, she shook her head. 

“Of course not. I would love the opportunity to catch up.” 

“It's settled, then.” Elsa smiled and patted Emma's arm before turning to face Killian Jones. Emma felt weight pressing on her heart, even as she thrilled at the thought of sitting near the young man who had grown even more attractive since she'd seen him last. 

Dinner that evening was to be a simple affair; the king and queen were much like Emma's parents, not ones to stand on pomp and ceremony unless it was an official function. Emma dressed with care, not wishing to seem too eager, but she did wish to look well for her rediscovered friend. 

Her terribly handsome friend in the terribly dashing uniform. 

Leaving her suite, Emma ignored the smirks of Grace as she headed for the grand staircase, meeting Elsa and asking her to not let on that Emma was a princess. Somehow, she did not think Killian would receive the news well. 

Unfortunately, she did not remember to tell Elsa's parents that she wished to keep that information quiet. 

“So, Lieutenant. We have heard from the admiralty that you are quite the up-and-coming young officer. We're rather glad that the princess asked us to sponsor you for your commission all those years ago.” 

Killian looked up from his soup and eyed Elsa, confusion overtaking his face as Emma felt a sinking in her stomach. Suddenly, the rich fish chowder did not taste so good. 

“Oh, I hadn't realized the princess had spoken to you; I thought it was--” 

“Yes, Emma is quite vocal when she sees a wrong,” laughed the queen, cementing Emma's doom when Killian's eyes darted over to meet hers. She smiled weakly, knowing she ought to have been the one to tell him. 

Her fears were realized when he seemed formal with her after dinner. Her attempts at conversation faltered at his aloof manner and clipped responses. She felt despair wash over her when he referred to her as “your highness,” and she knew she had ruined their friendship with her attempt at subterfuge. Helplessly, she tried to reason that when they'd met, they had simply been Killian and Emma, but she knew that it would not work with the Lieutenant who'd once told her he was determined to make something of himself, to be worthy, and that good form was the only way to achieve it. Keeping her position in the world from him was definitely not good form. 

“I must get back to my ship,” he told her when she tried to convince him to stay for cards and brandy, and when he left, she wanted to kick herself. She knew she would not see the dashing lieutenant again. He was honest and admirable, loyal and true; he would not take the lie-by-omission well. 

With a heavy heart she adjourned to the royal family's sitting room, kicking at the rug and berating herself for the slight deception. She vowed never to do such a thing again, were she ever lucky enough to find another man she... 

But she did not finish the thought. 

* * *

Several years passed. Emma saw less of her cousins in Arendelle, remaining in her own kingdom for most of the year. Not because of her shameful dinner revelation with the young lieutenant, but because of war against the forces of the Dark One. Traveling for pleasure became nearly impossible, her parents insisting on two ships from Misthaven's armada accompanying any ship on which the princess traveled. Emma soon decided that it was not worth the cost or the risk, and her trips became less and less frequent. 

She missed the soothing spray of the sea on her face nearly as much as she missed her friends and in her lonelier moments, the young boy who'd grown into a dashing young lieutenant. She began to remain at home, learning how to rule as her parents sat in war council after war council, making decisions that meant life or death for the various men and women who fought for their kingdom. 

And then one day came a letter from Arendelle—Anna was to be married (to an ice cutter!), and the entire royal family from Misthaven was invited. Elsa wrote that they understood if her parents thought the trip too dear, too dangerous; she told Emma that Anna would not fret if she could not make it. 

“Of course you will go,” Father insisted, smiling and patting Emma's hand. “You will represent our kingdom well, I think.” It was decided that a royal envoy would be too much, too ostentatious; too much a temptation for the machinations of the Dark One. Emma would take a small ship and fill it with only the loyalest, longest-serving guards and sailors the kingdom had to offer. 

Excited to once again be off on an adventure, Emma oversaw the packing of her trunks with care. When she came across one of her journals, identical to the one she'd once rashly given a young deckhand, she smiled wistfully, wondering how fared his naval career. Whether he still thought of her fondly. Whether he'd forgiven her for her deception, unintentional though it may have been. Whether he was as handsome as her young mind remembered. 

Well into the ten-day trip to Arendelle, the unthinkable occurred. Emma's ship was accosted by pirates, its cargo stolen. Its princess taken captive. 

It seemed that news of her travels had reached far and wide, and there was a reward offered to any who could bring the daughter of the enemy of the Dark One to his castle—Emma was to be a prisoner of war, for the madman Rumplestiltskin. 

She faced the pirate captain with her chin turnt up, putting her wrists forward defiantly as he tied them with a sneer. Emma's mother had once chased off an evil sorceress to reclaim her throne with her dignity intact, so went the legend; Emma was determined to face her fate with the same poise and grace. 

But when she was thrown into the captain's quarters with harsh hands squeezing parts of her body that had never been touched by another, she had to swallow back her panic. The captain eventually came down, his swaggering hips preceding the rest of him as he looked at her with smug amusement. 

“So beautiful,” he said, his tone pleasant and his countenance somewhat light. “Captain Blackbeard's me name, and had I know the Princess of Misthaven was such a pretty little thing, I would have thought to demand more in ransom. Perhaps I ought to consider keeping you as a prize, rather than turn you over to the Dark One.” 

“I'd imagine that wouldn't end well for you,” she said with disdain, glad when he laughed raucously as she looked down her nose at him. “You had better hope I do not get free, sir; I'm quite handy with a sword, and I should take great delight in running you through.” 

“I look forward to it, your highness,” he returned, sweeping into an ostentatious bow and smirking before his eyes roved over her entire body. 

* * *

Emma lost track of the days; all she knew was that she was fed well, and she was utterly bored. She had tried several times to break free, but the rope with which her wrists were bound was tied well (they were, after all, sailors). She discovered the first day of her captivity that there was a guard at the door, and that he took great pleasure in flipping a nasty-looking dagger through the air, sometimes catching it pointy-end first, sometimes catching it between his teeth. She decided that his size and skill with the blade did not merit an attempted escape in that quarter. Considering her only other option was out the window, Emma had to accept that she was in it until she was either sold to the Dark One, or her parents intervened before a trade could be made. Hating that she was so powerless, she bided her time, awkwardly balancing books from the captain's quarters between her bound hands and attempting to formulate an escape plan. And waiting. Waiting for any chance afforded her. 

Sometimes she was allowed above deck to walk, but circling a ship while pirates in various states of cleanliness leered at her was not at all enjoyable, though she looked forward to the fresh air. Sometimes the pirate captain would join her below to dine; other times, four or five meals would pass before she saw him again. Initially, she feared for her safety, but the captain seemed to keep some sort of code of honor, never once laying a finger on her nor tolerating his crew to do so, either, beyond the times she was led above deck. For that, she was glad. 

At one point, they landed at port, though she knew not where. She heard the stomping of boots and muffled noise as the crew went ashore, and Emma felt dread descend. Was she to be exchanged? Would her fate with the Dark One be worse than with the pirates who, though not terribly friendly, were oddly honorable? 

She was never to find out. Before her next meal was served, they were underway once again, and Emma gave Captain Blackbeard a questioning look when he brought dinner to her that night. 

“The situation was not ideal,” was all he said, grunting in response to her further queries. He would not tell her anything, however, so she sighed, her eyes darting to his lax form, wondering if he was attending, whether she could get to his sword before he reacted. 

“Do not think on it,” he said, as always, the pirate in him ever-vigilant. 

Two more trips were made to land, and two more trips were foreshortened; she was quite certain that men and women who'd been at sea for weeks would wish for a longer leave, but they never stayed at port more than a day. Emma wished she could be told why, why the shore leave was not for days. Why the captain seemed more disgruntled than ever, why he muttered under his breath with each increasing encounter, his eyes wary as he looked at her, as if he was assessing whether she was worth the trouble. 

Emma became inured to her life as a prisoner, going through the motions of being held against her will. Responding automatically with polite “thank you”s when she was served food, her eyes always darting to the weaponry worn by whomever it was that cleared away her dishes. 

Then one morning she awoke to the sound of cannonfire in the distance. She jerked up, clutching the counterpane to her chest. 

The captain, asleep on the floor next to her as he'd been for her entire captivity, stumbled to his feet, a sneer curling his lips. 

“He's found me,” he muttered, rushing to put on his boots and his coat. 

Emma felt dread descend; had Blackbeard decided to keep her, then? And the Dark One found out? She felt her heart racing. She got out of bed, eying the dress that was now dirty and bedraggled and laying across the back of a chair. She noticed that Blackbeard had left the door open, and her guard was gone. It was her chance. 

As the sounds of scuffling and angry shouting above deck filled the room, Emma raced about, heading for the trunk at the foot of the captain's bed. There she found his spare clothing, smiling as she slipped into the mostly clean breeches and white lawn shirt. She even took a pair of his stockings, knowing that should he survive the retribution of the Dark One that he might even appreciate the princess turning pirate as she stole his clothes from his own room. 

Cautiously, Emma slipped out of the cabin, unaccompanied for the first time since she'd been taken captive. The noise of battle grew louder as she crept down the hall; she wondered if she would panic as she got closer, but a thrill of excitement surged up her spine. 

She made her way up the stairs slowly, wincing when a felled man landed right next to her head at the top of the steps. Then her eyes widened; he had a blunderbuss in his hand, the weapon landing on the step with a dull thunk. Emma picked it up, checking for shot and smiling broadly when she saw that the pirate had not had a chance to fire it. Smee, his name was. She almost felt sorry that he was dead. 

Smee had been wearing a bright red cap, so she swiped it from his head, murmuring an apology as she put it on her own head and tucked her golden locks up into the stocking knit. She did not wish to be noticed as she made her escape, and her golden hair was a dead giveaway. 

Keeping low to the boards, Emma slunk about, doing her best to avoid the swordplay dotting the deck, blades flashing and curses flying around her. It seemed that much of the action was focused at the prow of the ship, Captain Blackbeard's guttural laughter ringing out over the din. 

When another man fell at her feet, Emma almost cried with relief. He was wearing the crisp blue uniform of the Arendelle navy. She was being rescued! 

Then her heart stopped. The man at her feet groaned, rolling over a bit so that his hat tilted back off his head. There was blood covering his face, an angry gash across his cheek. 

His dark hair was disheveled and standing at ends. 

She leaned down, whispering a frantic and repeated “no,” but when he rolled to his back and opened his eyes, she sighed. Brown, glazed-over sorrow blinked up at her, the unknown soldier's lips murmuring in silence as a stream of blood flowed from the corner of his mouth. 

Whispering an apology, Emma reached out to close his unseeing eyes before taking the saber he held in his now-loosened fist. 

With that, Emma stood tall and narrowed her eyes. She squeezed the hand holding the dead navyman's sword and lifted the arm carrying the blunderbuss. She'd be damned if she'd stay on this blasted pirate's ship one more day. 

Looking out toward the horizon, her heart cried out with relief when she saw the proud sails and waving flag of Arendelle. Steeling herself and swallowing once, she began to make her way toward the ship. 

Almost immediately, she was beset by a man in uniform. Luckily for her, Father's lessons in swords came in handy; knowing it would take too long to explain herself, Emma raised her arm and bested the sailor with nary a scratch, managing to brain him with the pommel of her sword before she'd even taken a breath. She fenced like she danced, and she found it easy to cut her way through the sea of little battles being fought across the deck of the pirate's ship. 

Blackbeard didn't even notice her as she reached the gangplank; there were several boards balanced across the water, unattended as every man present was engaged in a battle to the death. Emma spared one glance for her soon-to-be-former captor, wishing him well, despite the fact that he'd kidnapped her. He had been good—or perhaps, more accurately, not _awful_ —to her, and as long as he didn't bother her again, she truly wished him little harm. She could respect that he was a pirate, and had acted as such. That, she understood. 

But when Emma smiled, intending to turn about to face her salvation in the form of whatever ship from Arendelle had found them, something made her pause. 

She wasn't sure whether it was the way his face was in direct contrast to the man before him, or whether it was the way that he had lost his hat, his hair sticking up in several different directions as he sneered at his opponent. Perhaps it was the rakish cut of his coat, or perhaps it was the certainty in his footsteps. Whatever it was, something made Emma forget her escape plan, and as she realized why, her heart thundered in her chest. She was running before she knew it. 

“She's a delicious one, I'll give you that,” she heard Blackbeard sneer, his voice growling and somewhat breathless as his taunt reached its mark. “I commend your taste. Never even gave up a fight, that princess you've been so desperate to find. Afraid she's sullied goods now. The Dark One wouldn't have her. No man will.” 

“You bloody bastard,” the man standing before him snarled in response, his arm arcing downward. Emma gasped; Blackbeard looked over at her, and that decided his fate. Killian had been winning the fight, anyway; she thought that maybe the pirate saluted her as he fell, the smirk never leaving his lips as he landed at the feet of his opponent, Killian Jones. 

Emma halted before the heaving form of Killian. He raised his sword as his body tensed in defense, but when he met her eye, she both saw and felt the thrill of recognition coursing through his form. 

“Emma?” he rasped, lowering his arm and taking a step toward her. “Is it truly you?” 

“Killian,” she whispered, ignoring the continued fighting going on behind her. She dropped the weapons from her hands, still in full disbelief and unable to move. Killian Jones, here. She could barely breathe. 

Then he gasped and stumbled forward; Emma caught him in her arms, horrified when she looked down and saw the arm of Blackbeard slumping to the ground, not before his sword had made one final blow. Killian raised his arm between them, blood smearing along his uniform and her pilfered clothing. He clutched his wrist and groaned softly in pain. 

“Oh, Lieutenant!” Emma cried out. 

“Actually, it's Captain now,” he gasped. “Captain Jones, at your service, highness.” 

“Still just Emma,” she murmured, looking up into his face. And when her eyes met his, she was nearly rendered undone at what she saw there. Pain, making the corners of his eyes crinkle, but there was a fierceness in the intensity of his blue gaze that took her breath away. 

“You came for me,” she whispered, knowing it to be true the moment she said it. 

“Aye,” he said, wincing once again. 

“Your arm,” she whispered. Her fingers reached out, gently pulling back the sleeve of his coat. He was bleeding freely; she looked about, her eyes settling on Blackbeard's prone and still form until she saw what she needed. Kneeling down, she pulled the cravat from the pirate's neck and stood, quickly tying off Killian's wrist and leaning down to inspect her handiwork. 

“My hero,” he said warmly, and when she looked up once again, it was to see fondness and something else, something more, in his expression. 

A whooping cry rang out behind them, and like that, Emma was brought back to the situation at hand—the battle being waged. She turned, warming when she felt the strong grasp of Killian's good hand at her waist. 

Several bedraggled men in uniform were cheering, some tossing their hats in the air. When they saw their captain the cheers grew louder, though some looked at him quizzically, possibly because his body was pressed up against what appeared to be a young man in a bright red cap. Grinning, Emma pulled the bright red hat from her head and shook out her long hair, and the cheers grew louder as she grinned. 

“Let's get you home,” Killian murmured into her ear, and when she shivered in response to his nearness, she could feel his chest rumbling with laughter at her back. 

* * *

Princess Anna and the newly-minted Sir Kristoff were married nearly eight months before Emma arrived in Arendelle; Elsa met the _Frosted Diamond_ at Arendelle's harbor, sobbing as she pulled her friend into her arms. 

“You found her,” she cried to Killian, also wrapping him in her tight embrace. 

“I'd travel to the ends of the world to find her,” he told the princess, looking somewhat flustered when Elsa curtsied deeply in response. 

Emma and Killian were not married immediately, though were it widely known that she'd spent every night since the dashing rescue sleeping in his cabin, she may have been forced by convention to do just that. Still, her parents were inclined to bring up the subject every now and again, wondering when it was that the damned captain from Arendelle who'd spent the better part of a year finding their daughter planned on making an honest woman of her. 

“He doesn't feel worthy, if you can countenance it,” Emma told them, looking fondly at the man who hadn't stopped searching for her once he'd learned of her capture. 

“Ridiculous,” scoffed her mother the queen. 

“He may have a point,” sniffed her father. 

“He may have my heart,” Emma countered. 

“He'll propose when he's good and ready,” Killian told her later, drawing her in close for a searing kiss. His old journal given him by a young girl so long ago was tucked in a pocket in her skirt, a gift handed her by the man who'd risked life and limb to find her; it was full of the things he'd longed to tell her since they'd first met, lovely sentences that started off shy and hesitant and turned into years and years of pages and pages. She felt the press of his words, the ones written and said and unsaid, and she smiled. Looking up at the man she'd waited so long to love, she knew that should their positions be reversed, she, too, would go to any length to save him. She only hoped it would never come to such. 

As he held her hand aloft, his other, on-the-mend hand at her waist, he twirled her around the ballroom, his smiles carrying her through the dance and through the rest of their lives.


End file.
